


Withdrawal

by messageredacted



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:18:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messageredacted/pseuds/messageredacted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme Prompt: <i>I'm looking for a 'Sherlock in one of his dark moods' fic. In the Doyle canon, Sherlock would spend days doing nothing but lying on the couch and doing drugs, and I'd love a modern reinterpreataion of this. Some fics have mentioned similar things but they never really examined his depressive fits in detail. Maybe the first one since Sherlock and John move in together, and how does John react?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Withdrawal

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written on 20 August 2010.

Lestrade had asked him once why a man as intelligent as Sherlock would drug himself. Didn’t he understand how dangerous it was? How it could kill him?

Sherlock had told him at the time that Lestrade couldn’t comprehend the tedium of having a brain like Sherlock’s and nothing to occupy it. But really, it was more than that. The fact was that the cocaine wasn’t his drug of choice—the _cases_ were. The cocaine was just his method of tempering the withdrawal.

The cases were euphoria. He would go days without sleep, without food, because nothing else mattered in the world than figuring out this puzzle with which he had been presented. Even if he’d _wanted_ to sleep during a case, he never would be able to—his mind just wouldn’t shut off. Euphoria wasn’t a strong enough word for what he felt.

And then the case would start to come to a close and he would feel the beginning of dread. He would almost want to delay the end of the case, try to slow down and give himself more time, but there was no stopping his brain, and the lure of the case was too much.

The first few hours after the end of a case, he could still ride the tail end of the good mood and go out to dinner with John. He would enjoy himself. Or they would get take away and sit in the flat and talk, and Sherlock would try to get John to stay up with him through the night, but invariably John would beg off not too far after midnight, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts.

It was the worst at the beginning. The insomnia wouldn’t let him go, but the exhaustion would start to set in. He would alternate between complete lack of appetite and then ravenous hunger, but the thought of food would nauseate him. He would want to leave the flat, but at the same time he couldn’t bear the thought of the world.

He played the violin in these hours and counted it as a success if the music dragged John out of bed to shout at him, because even an argument was a distraction.

And he _needed_ distraction. He needed entertainment. He needed to believe that yes, there would be another case out there someday. No, that hadn’t been the last thing in the world capable of holding his interest. Maybe right now it seemed as if all the light had gone out of the world, but it would come back eventually. It had to. It always did.

He would crave distraction so much his hands would shake. His head would throb. His eyes would burn. It was in these times, these darkest times, that he would start to think of ways to get out of it. He would comb the papers for interesting articles. He would think about the things hidden in the secret places in the flat.

He would start to think _I could plan my own crime. They would never know it was me. I could draw that out as long as I wanted, and never be bored again_ —but no. He hadn’t fallen that far.

Yet.


End file.
